


Deadly, Beautiful Flowers

by LunaGreenDay



Category: Original Work, 달의 연인-보보경심 려 | Moon Lovers: Scarlet Heart Ryeo (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hanahaki Disease, Historical References, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Language of Flowers, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-09-15 07:55:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9225716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaGreenDay/pseuds/LunaGreenDay
Summary: A prince in 10th century Goryeo falls in love with a beautiful court lady who has an affiliation with flowers. Inspired by the K drama Moon Lovers: Scarlet Heart Ryeo.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There are some historical inaccuracies as well as some grammar problems, but I hope you enjoy!!  
> This is inspired by Moon Lovers: Scarlet Heart Ryeo. It's such a fantastic show omg. You should go watch it if you've never heard of it, it'll change your life.

_Prologue_

*** 

It can be said that flowers are seemingly designed to be beautiful, many of them having implications that are deeper than their appearance: pretty petals with delicate stems, light colours, and soft fragrance. Beautiful flowers soak up the golden light of the sun and express the bright rays through lovely meanings: yellow roses brim with affection; lilies overflow in beauty; the primrose blossoms for early youth. In these cases, it isn't hard to understand why lovers pick their share of daisies and lilacs as they walk hand in hand through gardens, their love being further induced by the gentle buzz of honeybees and the wafting, heady scent of pollen.

However, there are times when the glow of sun kissed leaves is not enough to sweeten the meanings of fair flowers, and despite their beauty, the blossoms hold pain instead: marigold petals crumple with despair; the aloe is spiked in grief; a citron star curves in soft sadness. They are flowers that a man might give to the love of his life on the day that she is to marry another, feelings of regret and missed opportunities hidden within a supposedly sweet bouquet.

Even so, we as humans don’t necessarily accept dictionary definitions and tend to push the boundaries of what we’re told. In turn we often decide our own meanings for things in life. Through our experiences we find our own symbolisms, and things that are painful to some people, are things of delight to others. Still, many quickly discover that beauty does not always mean positivity, that even the most beautiful flowers can conceal poison.


	2. Chapter 2

It started with a pretty young woman, a court lady that was in service to the king. She spent her time at the palace in quiet waiting, waiting for the order of tea or bath and running to the demand of countless royalty. A king, many queens, and even far more princes and princesses were to be catered to from the time that the sun rose to the time that it set. However, throughout her entire service, only one prince was to take notice of this delicate flower-like woman.

It was spring.

An order for tea is called for, a great meeting was unfolding as the kingdom of Goryeo was expanding. The court lady enters the room with eyes cast down, waist bent to honour, and the tray for herb steeped water raised skyward. Her hands are steady and soft, charcoal hair pinned up in tight precision with the folds of her dangui falling gracefully. All must be perfect when offering to the king and his company, one foot out of place can mean death here.

A young prince looks up from a painted map at the sound of the hanji doors sliding open, his attention pulled from the visage of a uniting country and drawn to a smaller face of ivory beauty as the court lady glides into the room.

She tips the teapot carefully, hot, pink tinted water pours and steam billows up, a light perfume rolling over in waves. He politely accepts a cup and drinks, letting the exquisite flavours flow over teeth and tongue. He is curious: what is that taste? That smell so familiar... he has never had tea quite like this.

She graces him with an answer. It is a rose tea, good for the health and the brightening of skin. It is assuredly very beneficial to his majesty as the roses are grown locally in the palace and guaranteed to be fresh. He finds that her voice is like the silk she wears. Not once does she look at him.

But soon she is dismissed, having served her purpose and with much more around the palace to do. The prince's eyes follow her as she passes again, eyes lowered and waist bent, the smell of red roses following her despite having left the tea behind. The hanji doors slide open once again, and then close. The court lady is gone.

He returns thoughtfully to his map, pondering the beautiful woman. Again he drinks from the cup, letting the smell and taste wash over him, savouring the taste of gentle breeze, raindrops on red petals, and golden sunlight - if those things could be tasted in simple tea.

But suddenly he is spluttering. A tightness in his chest grows as he tries to catch the abrupt spray of tea from his lips back into his cup. An advisor starts forward, but he waves them off, not wanting the trouble of their concern. Nothing has been poisoned, he assures them in embarrassment, he only choked. The coughing was gone as soon as it had come.

However, when the prince peers into his cup, it is certain that the single bright red flower petal drifting at the bottom hadn't been what he had choked on. The petal had never been in the tea to begin with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Red Roses - Love


	3. Chapter 3

It was summer.

The flowers have bloomed and are blooming, the palace now always fragrant when a gentle wind follows through the open corridors.

Since his first meeting with the court lady in the spring, the prince has learned her name and gained her company, spending much of his free days conversing with her as she goes about her errands or when she’s free from duty. At the end of every day he is sure that he has fallen even more so in love. The idea of it takes his breath away.

Today she is waiting for him under their willow tree as promised, her ebony hair unpinned and uncoiled to fall freely at her shoulders. She hums a small tune and smiles brightly as he watches from around the bend in the path. She is beyond beautiful, and he hopes that she’ll accept his declaration of love: a jade hair pin with her favourite flowers he’s carved into the precious stone himself.

Her attention is not yet drawn, but when he makes himself known, her grin increases tenfold. His chest flutters.

Months after the tea incident, a heaviness in his abdomen has been growing. Even so, not once has he coughed. Nor has suspicious red fallen from his lips since. He's been to the palace doctor many times, each visit rendering the same conclusion that he's in perfect health. He reasons with himself that the red flower petal must have been a trick of the light, that the entire situation was completely imagined. It’s not exactly reassuring, but still much better than somehow breathing out a flower. Instead, he attributes his pain to the heartache of love and wonders if such a feeling can be so powerful that it labours his breathing.

But unknown to the prince, the building chest pains were indeed caused by love, although not in the ways he thought. From the moment he had seen the court lady, a slow growing seed had appeared and imbedded itself at the roots of his diaphragm. Small branches had begun to form, steadily stretching the width of this abdomen with flowers budding and blooming to push at his ribcage - a sapling of unrequited love.

So, it is when he presents his hairpin and she pulls away from him that his chest begins to burn akin to fire, the tree’s roots anchoring themselves deeper into muscle. She cannot accept his gift, for she does not feel the strong emotions that he does. Her amber eyes darken in sadness, diamonds shimmering with pleas of  _forgive me_ all the while his throat closes off, branches reaching up to pry at the base of his lungs. He is her friend, not her lover, and she is sorry.

When he cannot speak due to the pressure put on his breathing, she turns away and begins to walk the path away from him. He watches her retreating figure return to Damiwon, a searing pain ripping through his lungs as wood slits through flesh. He begins to splutter quick and sharp, his chest burning in flames.

He falls to his hands and knees with the violent way his body shudders, coughing and shaking until he can finally breathe and the weight in his chest has been lessened. His eyes are screwed tight, but when he opens them, he is greeted with a sight that he'd convinced himself he wouldn’t see: an array of wet, red petals are scattered on the grass beneath him, dead leaves accenting the display with touches of brown covered in spittle.

The prince swallows painfully and unsteadily moves forward to push the flowers aside of the path where they won’t be seen by passersby. After a period of catching his breath, he gets to his feet and starts the walk back to the palace, wiping his mouth upon the sleeve of his hanbok as he attempts to quell the fear pulsing inside of him. He had not imagined the red petal in the cup, it was completely real.

As much as he tries to push the thoughts away, he knows the meaning of the coppery taste left in his mouth, the images burned into his memory – visions of fallen petals, all of them stained with a ruby ring around their edges.

Scarlet on scarlet, blood on flowers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Red Roses - Love  
> Dead leaves - Sadness


	4. Chapter 4

It was autumn.

He hasn't seen her since the flowers were blooming as he's been taking care not to find himself in her path. The palace no longer smells lightly of flowers, most of the blossoms having shed their petals for the new season. He can no longer detect the fragrance of roses either - a curious thing since they're one of the only still in bloom, stretching down the walls of the garden. It's a beautiful day for autumn, the air singing with insects and small birds. The lake and willow trees around the palace gardens are peaceful, not a wave disturbing water nor leaves.

But the coughing has not left him, if anything it's been worsening and the tightness in his chest has only gotten stronger. Some days it's a struggle to breathe, to pull air into his lungs that are now overgrowing with blossoms. Tree roots have sprouted from his diaphragm, and branches poke up through capillaries. He no longer spews simple rose petals, but a collage of dead leaves and torn up marigolds as well. Still, the palace doctor says he is in perfect health, that there's not a single thing wrong with him. The prince knows otherwise.

He realises that he is being childish by staying away from her and he misses her dearly as each day passes. At the end of a month, he cannot take the burden of being away from her much longer. He reasons with himself that if he is not her lover, he can still have her friendship. It is with this newfound hope, that he rushes to find her, all despite the new stabbing pain of sharp, fresh buds ripping up his insides as he runs toward her quarters.

_But, she is gone_

The advisor tells him that the king allowed for her freedom. The campaign to reunify the three kingdoms was a success, and she had been a caring court lady such that she was selected to leave Damiwon. She had been gone for a week at most, hadn't he known?

The man turns to leave after he is dismissed; the prince is left alone in his grief. It feels as if time has surely stopped, the pain in his chest close to unbearable when he tries to repress the urge to cough.

_Gone, his precious flower is gone_

A violent fit wracks his body and he falls back, steadying himself against the wall. He can neither hear nor see, putting all of his concentration into spitting up large yellow petals and decayed leaves along with the assortment of small, red and orange blossoms that fall from his mouth in a mixture of mucous and blood. Gasping and hacking, he clutches his chest. It is more than the quick burn of fire this time, there are no more darting flames. Now it is like drowning slowly; the pain does not subside.

Now he was suffocating on the hopeless love of tulips, the roots of his tree only burrowing down deeper, and the budding branches now stretching up past his collarbones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Red Roses - Love  
> Dead leaves - Sadness  
> Marigolds - Grief  
> Yellow Tulips - Hopeless love


	5. Chapter 5

Now it's winter.

The prince by now is in agony that is visible to no one but himself. His cupped hands are filled with bloody flowers each morning, his coughing acting up immediately once the day is new and his eyes flutter open. The soft snow reflects the growing light of the sun when he stumbles from his chamber, listening carefully for servant feet. He makes his way quickly to the garden, praying that he encounters no one.

When he shifts open the door to the courtyard, the cold morning air reacts poorly with his failing lungs. It feels like ice cutting through his chest as he kneels, crystals fighting their way down to cover the growing branches inside of him with frost. It is with shaking fingers that he gently brushes snow away, creating a secret hollow in an unfrequented area of the courtyard where bloody hands bury away crimson soaked flower petals. The mix of petals has changed since autumn; he’s been coughing them up much more frequently than when Goryeo was devoid of snow. Now violet geraniums have been added to the seemingly never ending blend of colours.

The prince sits quietly.

 _Flowers weren't supposed to bloom in winter_.

The day is Seotdal Geumeum, the last day of the year. Despite the festivities in the palace, the prince dons a civilian Hanbok and meanders through the vendors in the city below. The crisp air is still harsh on his lungs, but here is where he hopes to see her.

The night sky pops, then sparkles as bright sparks rain over the lake, the cool water reflecting yellow fire in its surface. Emerald and ruby explosions quickly follow suit, inspiring all who see them light up the sky to cheer. Fireworks were the way to heighten the atmosphere for the new year as the excitement of both children and adults alike clearly indicated.

Although he tried, the prince couldn't quite grasp the jovial attitude of his people. Such a thing was difficult when he was gasping for air, but finding nothing substantial to swallow. Wandering the street ways didn't help his condition either, the ever-growing tree branches snagging on his abdomen from the inside as he walked, the flowers seeming to bloom faster when his body was in motion. Every few steps resulted in a wheeze, his throat constricting in spasms. Every ten paces caused a heavy cough, his hand coming up to catch the flow of spittle, blood, and petals from his lips. Surely he was leaving a trail of flowers, but he could not stop. He wanted nothing more than to see his court lady at least once more.

But after an intense attack on his lungs that left his knees weak and his throat torn up, he could no longer move forward. He resigned himself to rest at the base of the bridge that overlooked the lake, watching the people move from one bank to the other as he struggled to breathe. The steady flow of people was calming, soothing the burn in his chest and the roughness of his throat. He sat in silence, swallowing down the taste of blood and licking his dry lips to prevent them from cracking in the winter air.

One couple crossing the bridge towards him catches his eye, a young woman and man arm in arm. The man's eyes reflect the light displays above them, his eyes shimmering in adoration as he stares down at his lady. His jaw is strong, cheek bones high, with a reed straight back and shoulders. Such a regal structure for a man who is not royalty.

The prince's gaze drifts from the man to the woman, curious to see whether the man's love was as striking as himself.

But it was _her_.

The long released court lady was in the arms of a nameless man, her chin tilted up to stare into his face with an expression of utter exuberance. The tips of her lips never once turned downward, her wind bitten cheeks plumped up from the force of a gleaming smile. He had gotten his wish to see her again, but she would never be his.

The prince lashes out a hand to steady himself against the bridge's banister, the truth taking the air from his chest and the strength from his body. In that moment, he could feel the tree growing rapidly through his lungs, the roots embedding themselves so deeply that there would be no way of removal. Branches stretched upward at an alarming rate, tearing through delicate inner tissues until his mouth filled with blood and he could feel blooming buds prickle his palate.

His legs suddenly give out and he collapses to the ground with shaking hands coming up to claw at his throat, trying to find a way to end the excruciating pain of coughing and heaving up blossoms. Red, orange, yellow, purple, and now white and pink - the new addition of daisies and carnations fighting their way up his windpipe, cutting off the little air being successfully pulled past the branches and blood.

Civilians begin to take notice of the commotion, stopping their festivities to stare dumbly at the scene in front of them until someone screams out: _that’s the prince! The prince is hurt! Someone, please, help!_

But the prince’s eyes have since squeezed closed against the pain radiating through his body, an instant too late to catch a glimpse of his lost court lady racing towards him from across the bridge. He does not know that it is _her_ trembling hands on his chest scooping away the blossoms that she unknowingly made grow, or that it is _her_  delicate fingers prodding at his throat and chest in a futile attempt to find and stop a bleeding wound.

The prince’s body lay slackened against the snow, his shredded, blood filled lungs still working fruitlessly to draw in air through rattling gasps. And soon he can no longer hear _her_  voice crying out, a voice that – to him – still seemed sweetly melodic despite being laced with panic and anguish. Instead, her words are drowned out by his own wet gurgling, scarlet blood and spit running down his chin in a last attempt to expel the blossoms and dead leaves overflowing his lungs. He cannot breathe, cannot think, cannot feel, and he certainly does not get a chance to see her eyes shining bright with recognition and fear, or her face wet with tears and blood.

It is with heart and lungs ripped up beyond repair does his shaking breaths begin to slow, soon stopping all together; the sweet prince succumbs to sleep, and the court lady resigns herself to clasping his handsome face in her hands, her head bowing to his chest as she begins to sob. All is still apart from the pretty flower petals continuing their fall onto once white snow, snow that is now flecked with crimson blood and failed love.

***

_Whoever knew that beautiful flowers could be the death of someone?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Red Roses - Love  
> Dead leaves - Sadness  
> Marigolds - Grief  
> Yellow Tulips - Hopeless love  
> Purple Geraniums - Melancholy  
> Daisy – Farewell  
> Pink Carnations - I will never forget you


	6. Chapter 6

_Epilogue_

***

It is once again spring.

A grand investigation had been launched at the time of the prince’s death, the king ordering the greatest physicians in Goryeo to inspect the body and make sense of how his son had died. Even with their experience, the doctors could give no real reason for the tree found growing inside of the prince’s chest cavity, none of them having answers as to how his lungs seemingly began to sprout flowers out of nowhere. Thus, the unnatural death was covered up by the king, no one dared to ask questions despite their curiousity as to how their beloved prince had met his end.

6 weeks after his death, it was the prince’s court lady that made the startling discovery of how he had died. She had been fraught with misery ever since the prince’s cremation, finding herself playing over memories of him in her head. An aching of longing soon began to spread through her chest as faraway images of his smiling eyes made their way to the front of her mind and stayed there. She found that it was as if a white paper boat was adrift in a lake, her straining fingers being just short enough that she couldn’t catch a hold of what was out of reach from the sandbank. And no matter how far she stretched, the little white boat was pushed away by her own reaching fingers, being carried away by the soft current of the wind and left to sink after the paper began to tear in water.

And so it was like this that she recognised that she had lost what was floating in front of her; he had always been so close, but he was left to drift away and fall apart. She was now much too late to mend the damages that were done, the heart he had handed her that one day beneath the willow tree was long turned to ash. She would never have the future that could have been, the future that could have been with _him_.

These revelations came to the court lady all at once on one spring afternoon, leaving her body weak and her face soaked with tears, her fingers clutching the jade hairpin inlaid with flowers as the pain that the prince’s death had left her with is further heightened by the agony of lost love.

Coincidently, it is the same day that she finds herself coughing up her first sprig of purple hyacinth, the edges wet with blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Purple Hyacinth – Please forgive me


End file.
